Free Kestrel (Hart Briothers #3) by A. M. Hargrove

sorry as I am.”
    No
wonder she’s a fucknut . And I thought I had it bad
with my abusive SOB of a father.
    “Right.
I don’t suppose I am. Tell me about her.”
    “No.”
    My
hand automatically reaches for my neck and massages the back of it. Then I
shove my sleeves up past my elbows. I make a bit of a growling noise in the
back of my throat. “Uh, yeah, so, bottling all this shit up inside of you has
worked so well, I see.”
    Her
head jerks up and pale gray eyes land on my own. I didn’t notice before, but I
guess when she was outside, she must’ve been crying. Her cheeks have taken on a
sheen that wasn’t there before. Using the back of her hand, she swipes them
dry.
    “Stop
judging me.”
    “I’m
not judging; only stating the obvious. Take a look for yourself, Carter.”
    She’s
silent and I am too.
    Finally
I say, “If you won’t tell me about her, show me her room again.”
    She
wants to run. It’s in her eyes, on her face. She’s afraid.
    “Listen.
I want this house. I know your secret. You’ve come this far, you may as well go
the rest of the way.”
    Suddenly,
she stomps out of the room. I guess she’s had enough. Then, to my surprise, she
returns, carrying the keys. I follow her up the steps. When we get to the door,
she looks at me, blinking rapidly. Sweat beads her upper lip. I know what fear
looks like. I’ve lived it for years.
    “There’s
nothing in there that can hurt you.”
    Her
features quickly morph into a mask of pain. “You don’t get it, do you?
Everything in there hurts me. It shreds me to pieces. She should still be alive
today.”
    She
dangles the keys from one finger and I take them. Unlocking the door, I open it
and take Carter’s hand.
    “Tell
me about her. I want to know about Ells.”
    Through
a wall of tears, she tells me in a broken voice, “Her name was Ellsworth Carter
Simon Drayton. She was born on a sultry day in August—the fourteenth, to
be exact. She would be seven now. And she was amazing, beautiful, funny,
spirited, happy … everything I’m not. And she was mine. And if I had only
stayed home and not gone to that seminar that week, she’d most likely be alive
today.”
    She
moves to the bed, sits, grabs a pillow, and brings it to her face. “She loved
pink and purple. Ghastly colors, but she was a little girl, so that’s how we
decorated her room. We did it for her birthday that year. Put all this crap up.
I found all these pictures with everything that matched at Pottery Barn. It was
so much fun and my parents were awesome. When we showed it to her, she said,
‘It’s a woom for a pwincess .’
She couldn’t pronounce her ‘R’s. And I told her that she was a princess, my
princess. She was so precocious. Talked way before kids usually do and had an
extensive vocabulary, too, for her age. She would pat my back for me when I was
studying and I always felt guilty about being away so much.” She threads her
hands in her hair and tugs on it. “God, what I wouldn’t do to get back those
precious hours I missed with her. Do you have any idea what the half life is of
the grief a mother feels for the loss of her child?”
    I
shake my head, letting her know I do not.
    “Eternity,
Mr. Hart.”
    Carter
jumps to her feet and runs out of the room. I hear them pound as they hit the
steps. For the first time in as long as I can remember, the block of ice inside
my chest, otherwise known as my heart, begins to thaw. No woman has ever
touched me in the way that she just has. I’m left alone, staring at all the
mementos she has of Ells, trying to understand the true meaning of each of
them. I can’t. It’s not possible. I’m completely at a loss. Allowing her to
keep this room as a shrine to her beloved daughter won’t let her put the past
behind and move forward. But the truth is, how can she? Knowing what happened, I’m not sure I could either. The only person I
could discuss this with is Gabby and I already know what her answer would be. I
can be an